


like the tide against the shore, we break

by argle_fraster



Series: wax and wane [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Marking, Mildly Dubious Consent, Scent Marking, look a sequel that i never should have written, lydia is still a bamf, what am I doing with my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 12:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argle_fraster/pseuds/argle_fraster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter still wants her, and Lydia refuses to yield; or maybe she does yield, and Derek is the one to get her to bend against him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like the tide against the shore, we break

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I write things and I just think, hmm. Self. Why do you write these things. HAHA OH WELL. <3

She's not sure what part of the odd, low pangs of self-preservation she ignores the most often. She lives in a world of legends that attack children outside a school, and yet here she is, leaving her bedroom window unlocked and half-open. She likes the feel of the breeze, and she likes knowing that she's given him an opening.

There's a box of wolfsbane beneath her bed. Stiles gave it to her. He said it was from the doctor, the vet - Lydia doesn't know anything about the vet, but she knows what the blue flowers are. She sat for a long time with them at her desk, running her hands over the markings on the top. She keeps them beneath the mattress because having them makes her feel safe. Safer, at least, and that's the most she can hope for.

She likes being reckless. She keeps her window open.

Three nights in to the routine, she wakes to the feeling of skin prickling over her arms. It's awful; she can taste it, on the back of her tongue. Lydia wants to tear it out of her veins and let it drip along the floor, but she doesn't. She claws a bit at her throat, at the canine-punctures that weren't deep enough to require anything other than a scarf covering them for a few days. She thinks about the adrenaline singing through her blood.

She gets up and goes to the window. There's a figure outside in the lawn. She knows him before she really recognizes him - it's her own traitorous body, stretching out to reach him. Lydia gasps, steps back, pushing at the windowsill. He's really here. Peter's face is bathed in moonlight, and he's staring up at her open window with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

She doesn't belong to him.

Some part of her knows he's come to claim her. Or _re_ claim her, maybe, and that makes her feel good - she broke something. That day with Derek in the Hale house snapped a bit of the tenuous control Peter had had over her, and she's suddenly swept with fierce pride for it. She won't be his.

"No," she whispers. Her hands are on her arms, fingernails digging into the skin. It gives her something to hold onto. Lydia steps away from the window; she shouldn't have left it open. And even now, knowing this, she doesn't close it. She hates the part of her that likes the invitation - the danger. The thrill of it. It's sickeningly sweet, and she hates how much she craves it now. At least it makes her feel something.

Something is better than nothing, and she hates that she knows that.

Lydia goes to her bed and gets the box of wolfsbane. Just clutching it in her hands makes her feel better. She's not a cowering flower. She is the blue between her hands; she is the poison that Peter will come to fear. She might have been his chosen soldier, but now she's leading the mutiny against him. She sits on her bed and stares at the window, and he doesn't come through. For a long time, she waits.

When she gets up to check once more, he's gone. She keeps the wolfsbane box out anyway, just in case.

She can't sleep after that, so she goes to her desk and takes out a pen. It's a nice pen - an _expensive_ pen, the kind her father gets for her when he goes on fancy business trips for weeks at a time and thinks that some fountain ink will make up for the gaping hole caused by his absence. She takes the ink out of it and the tip is sharp enough to carve into the wood.

She carves mathematical equations into the box. She integrates the numbers that represent them - Derek, prime, unable to be taken apart, and herself, a multiplier that leads to an always even number. Peter is zero; he can't be integrated or divided, and anything pushed against him always results in the same nothingness. It feels good to create something she knows with it. Peter might be a constant, but he's a constant that can be erased with addition. Lydia will add everything to her life if it means taking Peter out.

\--

She wakes to him straddling her on the bed two nights later. She should have locked her window.

When she comes to, his hands are around her neck. Lydia hopes he feels the mark Derek left there - she hopes he _hates_ it. She tries to gasp and can't get anything out, and she kicks up with a knee instinctually, managing to catch Peter square in the back. It's hard to hurt a werewolf; it doesn't do much.

Peter is snarling. Lydia rolls and somehow manages to get near the side of the mattress. He's going to kill her - he's going to claim her. She'll never be his again. She can feel the awful weight of him settling on her waist, and she wants to be sick. She remembers the way he tasted that night he kissed her.

It gives her an idea.

She can't hurt him, because he's too strong, but she's smart. She knows his angle, and he knows what he wants - he has a weakness, and she isn't afraid to exploit it, even if it means exploiting herself. She lurches up into him and that _does_ catch him off-guard. She finds his mouth with her own. It's enough - enough to confuse him, enough to rattle him. The grip around her neck goes slack because he's cupping instead of choking, and it gives her an inch or two to wriggle free with.

Lydia lunges for the side of the mattress, pulling out the box. It's wood and heavy, and she slams it against the side of Peter's head. Either the charms on the ash work or it's the contents; she knows she doesn't have enough upper body strength for it to be her. Peter howls, awful, like an animal, and falls free of her. There's enough of a moment to push him off the bed, and then Lydia is scrambling upwards, pulling the lid of the box open.

"I'll kill you," she seethes, with fingers crushing a handful of blue flowers. She knows he can smell it - hell, _she_ can smell it, with senses that shouldn't be hers and aren't really anyway.

Peter is laughing, on all fours on the floor. "You can't kill me."

"I can," she says. "They killed you once."

"And look how well it worked out for them," Peter replies. He stands, arms out to either side like he's bowing after a performance. His whole _life_ is a performance. "I'm a part of you, sweets. I'll always be a part of you."

Lydia opens her fingers, lets the breeze from the open window move the wolfsbane bits across the room. "I'll carve out every remainder you left, then."

He starts to wheeze. She hopes it hurts; she _likes_ thinking that it hurts. Maybe it burns his lungs when he sucks in air, eroding from the inside-out just like he did to her. He burnt out the parts of her that used to be good and left her with nothing.

"You'd rather be his?" Peter chokes. His hand is around his own neck now.

"I'm not anybody's," Lydia says. "But I'd rather be his than yours."

The bite mark on her neck pulses with the truth of it. She feels like she just swore an oath beneath the full moon, something binding and permanent and tangible.

Peter spits on her bedroom carpet. "Fuck you," he hisses. "I _made_ you."

"No," Lydia tells him. "You unmade me, and you won't be the one to put it back together."

He crosses the space between them and kisses her again, hard - piercing. He kisses her so hard that it hurts, and she bites his bottom lip just to hear him curse again. It's bleeding when he pulls back, wiping at his face with the back of his hand.

"This isn't over," he says.

"For you, it is," she tells him.

She still doesn't lock her window, even after he's left. She doesn't bother, because she leaves the house anyway with her mother's car keys and no shoes, and doesn't even care.

\--

He should know she's there - heightened senses, and all that. But she finds him on the stinking cot he calls a bed, unwilling to get up, even though her footsteps have to sound like a herd of animals to his wolf hearing.

He still doesn't move, not even after she's climbed up on the bed over him.

"You smell like Peter," he says, lazily opening his eyes.

"He's your fucking uncle," Lydia replies. She's pissed about it, and she doesn't know why. Blood only goes so deep, but hers feels like it's burning her from the inside-out.

Derek stares up at her. She can't read his expression. "So you came here?" he asks.

"He wants to claim me," she says.

"And you want me to fix it?"

Lydia grabs his jaw, fingers tighter than they should be. She can't hurt him - not like this, anyway, and that's really the part that matters. They all just rail at each other without thinking about it. Lydia doesn't want to think about it; not tonight.

"You can't claim me," she hisses. "I'm claiming _you_."

"I'm an Alpha," Derek growls. She notices that he doesn't try to escape her grasp. He easily could, and they both know it.

"So _prove_ it."

He growls again and flips her, faster than she thought possible, with enough force to send the bedcovers flying. He pulls her down so she's beneath him, between the rippling muscles of his arms - he could tear her apart, limb from limb. She wants him to. She reaches up to grab his face, to bring him down to her level. His mouth is already open for her. He doesn't taste like Peter, doesn't taste like rotting decay and the sickly-sweet tang of betrayal. She licks his mouth open at the corners, digging her fingers into his hair because she can. Because this is something she _chose_.

She can feel the sounds rumbling through his chest, up to his throat. Animalistic, full of desire - she swipes her tongue between his teeth and feels his canines emerge. It sends a wave of fierce _want_ through her form, like she did this. This is _hers_.

Derek's hand slides up her leg, and she's both relieved and annoyed that his claws aren't out. His fingers slip easily up beneath her skirt, the fabric she pulled on before leaving just to get something over her nightgown.

"You don't get to make the rules," Derek whispers against her jaw. He finds the elastic of her underwear, pushes it aside. She's arching up into his touch before he's even there, and he's taking his sweet time, thumb twirling lazy circles against the inside of her thigh.

"There aren't any rules for this," she replies. She tugs on his hair, trying to get him to move faster. "I'm not a wolf. I'm not under your control."

"You can't keep coming to me for this." But it seems like he doesn't believe it himself, not the way his breath quickens against the side of her face when his finger finally finds her, dips between her, swipes a long stroke upwards just to make her muscles hitch. He presses his mouth against her jaw, down her neck, licking his way down to the hollow of her collarbone.

Lydia just bites her lip, lets him work. Lets him work her open, lets his fingers take her apart. It's different, being undone when she wants to be - he's fixing the seams of the pieces Peter left behind. She moans when he curls a finger inside and pulls it back, dragging long and hot, thumb circling her clit.

His teeth are still extended, half-wolf, half-shifted. He bites at her shoulders, lightly, barely scraping the skin, and then works down to the swell of her breasts beneath the cotton material of her nightgown.

"You're not a wolf," Derek says, against her breasts, and then slowly drags his tongue back up towards her collarbone again. "But you've got part of the wolf inside you."

"What does that mean?" Lydia asks. It comes out higher than she anticipated - she's moving beneath Derek's fingers, bucking against his thumb. She needs him to go faster, harder; she needs him to mark and proclaim. She wants his name etched into her skin.

Derek laughs - it rumbles against her form, through her arms. He moves, shifting, sliding his finger in further to get a better angle. He finds her mouth again, kissing her hard. It doesn't leave any room for argument.

"Stretch out," he orders, and nips at her bottom lip. "You are more than what you pretend you are."

Lydia can't do much with the way he's stroking her open. She's close, and she tries to focus. It's hard to concentrate when she's fighting the swell of pressure against her back.

"Use the senses given to you," Derek tells her. He's tugging at her ear with too-sharp teeth. "What do you smell on me?"

"Me," Lydia groans. Oh _god_ , she's close. Her whole body is vibrating with the force of it, the buzz of the impending onslaught. "Desire. Power."

"You think you can control this?" He's whispering again, mouthing the words into her skin. "You think you can control _me_?"

She arches, grinding down on his fingers. "I think you want me to."

She gets a snarl in response, another shallow bite to her shoulder, and she comes with a cry that she manages to mute only by clenching her jaw. He seems to like it when she digs her fingernails into the muscles of his back; they aren't claws, but she can still put some force into it. He lets her ride it out, which is more than she had been expecting.

When she opens her eyes again, the last bit of pleasure slipping down her feet into her toes, Derek's just looking at her. Lydia can't read his expression.

"There's a reason Peter wants you," he says.

Lydia just tugs her underwear back up, trying to smooth her skirt. Her heart is still thudding loudly in her chest - _that_ she can feel. She knows Derek can hear it, too. "Because he's a sick fuck," she replies.

"You're going to be powerful."

She gives him a smile, the knowing, sweet smile she used to give the boys in school before she stopped caring about them. Before her world became about the moon and blue flowers. "I'm pretty sure I already am."

She leans forward to kiss him again. It's missing the anger and the furious, desperate ache their previous entanglements had, which is why it's so jarringly _wrong_ , and that's why she does it. It'll throw him off-balance, and if Lydia is being honest, it throws her, too. He moves up against her, mouth parted, eager in a way that happens when someone knows the worst parts of you and is smoothing them over with the sharp lap of their tongue.

"Lydia," Derek groans.

"If Peter comes back," she says against his lips, "don't kill him. That's for me."

She wonders when she got like this. She feels like a lioness sleeping with a pack of wolves.

Derek's expression is oddly open when she pulls back again, patting his cheek with the palm of her hand as she slides off the cot. Her legs feel vaguely like jelly, knees weak. She feels good.

"Lock your window," he growls.

She knew he'd notice that.

"It won't keep him out," she says, and she can tell by the thinning of his mouth that Derek knows it's true. "I'm not afraid of him anymore."


End file.
